


The Dancer and The Captain

by Mssmithlove



Series: Happiness Awaits [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ballet Dancer Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, John Plays Rugby, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, New relationship love, Teenlock, ballet!lock, balletlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ballet has always been Sherlock's first love, but when a certain rugby captain starts hanging around, well, that may just change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dancer and The Captain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexisriversong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/gifts).



> This is dedicated to all of you fantastic readers out there, thank you so much for reading and following my work and tumblr page! This is in celebration of 100 followers on tumblr and 100 bookmarks on this series! I received a ballet!lock request from two different Anons and alexisriversong so the following is a combination of those three requests!

_One two three four five six seven eight one two three four five six seven eight one two three four five six seven eight._

He catches his reflection for only a fraction of a second as he spins, turning and turning, eyeing his leotard-clad form with a critical eye, ensuring his posture is nothing other than perfection. Rehearsal ended about twenty minutes ago but Sherlock needs to practice. Sherlock needs to work.

He turns, fouette en tournant over and over, counting succinctly in his head, no music now, he doesn't need it, planning his next move into his switch split leap across the floor, in five six seven-

A rather heavy gasp bursts through the silence of Sherlock's concentration and he trips in his transition, surprised for a split second before fury takes over. He tumbles to the ground gracelessly, irritation flaring with the hard smack of his hip to the wooden floor.

"Oh shit," the voice, presumably the one that made the distracting sound in the first place, hisses regretfully, footsteps hurrying into the studio. "Are you okay? I'm so sorry, I was just walking by, I didn't think you'd be in the middle of… god, but that was incredible the way you just… sorry, sorry that's not what I… Christ, let's get you up."

Hands are tucking under his arms and hauling him back to his feet before he can register what's happening and Sherlock tries to remember how to breathe properly.

John Watson is touching him.

All of Sherlock's fury ebbs away in one fell swoop.

He knows this boy.

He  _dreams_ about this boy.

John bloody Watson, gorgeous rugby captain, blond-haired blue-eyed well-known ladies man around their school is  _touching Sherlock Holmes_.

He can't breathe. He  _can't._

He lets himself be manhandled, feeling stupider by the minute, realizing he can in fact stand on his own as John settles him on his feet.

"I really didn't mean to startle you," John continues to babble with embarrassment. "I've just never seen you… like _that_ , I mean- well I mean I knew you danced by I didn't  _know..._  er well I didn't know it would be like that, I just- you know feel free to jump in here any time and make me stop bloody talking."

A laugh escapes Sherlock's lips at John's self-deprecating smile and shake of his head, round cheeks blooming with dark red splotches. "It's alright," Sherlock says softly, biting his bottom lip to keep the infectious grin on John's face from spreading to his own.

John glances down at the movement, lips parting gently before he shakes himself. "You're, uh… you're Sherlock, yeah?"

Again, the wind is knocked from Sherlock's lungs. John knows his name? John knows… John knows he dances? He'd been certain John didn't have a clue who he even is.

"I, uh- yeah," Sherlock says with a nod. "How'd you-"

"You're a bit of a legend round here," John chuckles, eyes crinkling around the edges.

Sherlock bites down on the panic that swells heavy in his chest.

A legend.

That's one way to put it, he supposes.

In this school, that could mean a whole mess of different things. Amongst the creative types and artists and all-around outcasts, even Sherlock knows he holds some sort of superiority amongst them. Being the top dancer in the school and male, as well as having a passion for science and on occasion dangerous experiments in the labs, not participating in physical sports or concerning himself with social status makes him important somehow. Untouchable. He represents successful rebellion to the rest of this particular half of the school and he's quietly appreciated for it. He's aware of this but pays no mind to it. It does nothing for him.

The other half of the school, the jocks playing sweaty sports, chasing a ball or a goal or each other and those who support the jocks cheering them on at games and matches and races, well. They all feel a bit… differently about Sherlock.

Or, well, they feel differently about the 'fairy' or the 'freak' or the 'fag' in tights and ballet slippers, twirling his way around the school in his tutu and his glitter and all the other gay stereotypes they can think of.

Truthfully, Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care what they think of him. He doesn't care if they have him all wrong and consider his love for a sport - because yes, in fact ballet is a  _sport_ , though those dirt-loving, bloodied brutes would never in a million years admit that – a reason to peg him with all the homophobic nicknames they can think of, he really and truly doesn't care.

But when it comes to John Watson, he might care. He might care just a bit.

John Watson, who dropped into his school last year, joining the rugby team, making captain almost immediately and making quite a name for himself in the process. The girls swoon over his pretty blue eyes and dirty blonde hair and the boys clap him on the back and call him Cap and laughed at everything he says. Everyone loves John Watson.

Everyone.

Including Sherlock.

He's ashamed to admit it even now. He's barely said three words to John, a 'sorry' once when he ran into him on accident in the hall, an 'excuse me' when he nudged passed him in the cafeteria… yup, just about three words.

But those moments…oh how they'd stuck with Sherlock. The smell of John's shampoo, a clean, simple scent, mixed with the musk that had to be all John lingered in Sherlock's nose after an encounter like that. The feel of John's muscular arm brushing Sherlock's lingered on his sleeve like a burn, scorching right through his shirt and onto his skin, branding him with the strength he was certain lie within John's slight but obviously powerful body.

He shouldn't feel this way about John. Not because he's a boy – Sherlock sorted out his sexuality a few years ago, not thinking much of it at the time, until John Watson had wandered into his school and if he hadn't been certain he was gay before, John Watson and his rugged handsomeness had been sure to convince him wholeheartedly.

No, he shouldn't feel this way about John because he doesn't  _know_  John. Not really. And John certainly doesn't know him.

"I've heard you're quite the dancer," John continues with a grin. "Rather good."

"The best," Sherlock mumbles, self-preservation his first line of defense.

John laughs. "Yeah, that's what I was getting at," he giggles, grinning broadly at Sherlock.

It's a beautiful sound. Sherlock has an overwhelming want to taste it, lick right into John's mouth and savor it.

He immediately shakes himself, his cheeks heating at the thought.

"Are you guys training for something specific?" John asks curiously, glancing down at Sherlock's black pointe shoes laced up his ankle tied with a bow in the back.

Sherlock nods. "The mid-term recital. Just a small show to prepare for the big performance at Christmas break."

"Wow," John nods, clearly intrigued. "Are you… do you um… I'm really sorry, I have no idea what kinds of questions to ask about ballet."

Sherlock laughs, John's blunt honesty endearing on so many levels. "That's okay. Um, thank you for… helping me up."

John snorts. "After being the reason for making you fall in the first place? Yeah, no problem."

"Well it wasn't on purpose," Sherlock murmurs.

John pops an amused eyebrow. "How do you know? I may have come down here for the sole purpose of knocking you on your arse."

Fighting the twitch in his lips, Sherlock attempts a glare. "What would that do for you?"

The small lift of his shoulder makes John look innocent and unassuming. "Maybe it was an experiment."

Sherlock freezes for a moment before finding John's mouth turning up in a teasing smirk. "Ah," he says in understanding, "so you've heard more about my reputation than the ballet aspect."

"Maybe," John grins. "I mean, I  _may_  have heard about the fire you set to one the chairs in Mrs. Relick's chemistry class last year."

"It was an accident," Sherlock mutters off to the side, although that particular experiment had worked rather well. He'd been partnered with Sally Donovan and needed a way to scare her off, her snide, rude comments doing nothing for his concentration or mood. In his opinion, things went off without a hitch. He wasn't the one who had to deal with the fire department showing up, so-

John abruptly bursts into peels of giggles, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Oh god, what did she do? Mrs. Relick is not known for her kindness."

Sherlock shrugs. "I actually don't know. I ran before Headmaster James arrived on the scene to haul me off to detention. The next day I got switched to another class."

The giggles turn into downright belly laughs as John clutches at his stomach, shoulders shaking up and down. "I would have loved to see that," he gasps.

Sherlock finds himself laughing as well, enjoying the happy glow in John's cheeks. He's a bit cherub-like, his face round but not pudgy, thanks to years of sports keeping him fit. So bloody fit. That body of his haunts Sherlock, all tight muscles and firm limbs, snug jeans doing wonders for the curve of his arse and thighs-

"Anyway," John sighs as the laughter slowly wanes. "It's getting pretty late. I'd better be getting home."

"Of course," Sherlock agrees, bobbing his head in vigorous agreement, suddenly feeling guilty for keeping John enveloped in his story.

For his part, John actually grins, seeming entirely at ease with his late departure. "It was nice to officially meet you, Sherlock Holmes. I'll see you around."

Sherlock blinks. Christ, it sounds like a promise. Like a commitment that he will in fact see Sherlock around. Like maybe they'll have another interaction like this soon.

"Right," Sherlock agrees, ignoring the blood rushing to his face. "See you."

John smiles down at his feet as he turns and heads out the door.

Sherlock has all of thirty seconds to revel in the fact that he's just spoken to – no - had a  _conversation_  with John Watson before another familiar voice filters into the room.

"I'm sorry," Irene Adlers's smooth words dripping with incredulity come from behind him. "Did that gorgeous beast of a rugby captain just talk to  _you_?"

Sherlock raises a condescending eyebrow as he turns to his friend. "Gorgeous beast?"

Irene's eyebrows shoot up and Sherlock wonders if they could reach her hair if it weren't still pulled snuggly back from practice. "Have you _seen_  him in those rugby shorts? Lord have mercy."

Sherlock does his best to ignore all the saliva that has just filled his mouth. He has, in fact, seen John Watson in his rugby shorts and truthfully gorgeous beast was not far off from an accurate description. Sherlock would have gone with something more poetic like breathtaking Adonis or something juvenile like sexy heartthrob. Not that Sherlock has spent hours thinking about John Watson and all the nicknames he could come up with to describe how beautiful he is. He hasn't.

Well, he has but that isn't something he plans on admitting to Irene Adler.

"He probably just got lost or something," Sherlock shrugs as though this weren't the most exciting thing that has ever happened to him.

Irene narrows her eyes. "No way. That was deliberate."

Sherlock does his best to ignore the tiny thrill that runs down his spine. "I don't think-"

"Oh please, the boys locker rooms are on the other side of the hallway," Irene says, crossing her arms. "And the exit to the car park is beside it. He came down here for a reason."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock mumbles, dropping down to the bench on the wall and unlacing his pointe shoes. "What would he come down here for?"

"Seriously?" Irene chides, taking a seat beside him. "You can't be that clueless."

Sherlock rolls his eyes down at his fingers unwrapping the ribbons around his legs. "I'm the furthest thing from clueless, thank you very much."

Irene gives a rather dramatic sigh, shaking her head and patting Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, Sherlock," she feigns pity, "So young. So gay. So very,  _very_  clueless."

Scoffing, Sherlock wriggles from her grasp. "I'm pretty sure I told you that in confidence, not for you to hold it over my head."

"Hey, us gays gotta stick together," Irene raises an eyebrow. "Prepare for the uprising and all that."

Sherlock snorts. "Of course. The overthrowing of the straight population."

"Undoubtedly," Irene sneers.

This is why he and Irene make such good friends. They dance together, they have much in common and they have no attraction to one another. However, while Sherlock knows his place in school, on the side of the artists and outcasts, Irene seems to toe the line. She doesn't fall to one side or the other, having friends in both groups and she is more than tolerated by all. She says it's due to her wicked good looks and sensual personality. Sherlock thinks it has more to do with her being the life of the party every weekend.

"Look, all I'm saying is look at the facts," Irene continues as they each stuff their gear into their respective gym bags. "I don't think the captain of the rugby team does something for no reason."

Sherlock does his best to ignore her words and the flutter of delight they invoke in him. He truly has no idea why John came down to the studio, but he'd prefer not to analyze it. Why get worked up over something he knows the possibility of are so unbelievably slim?

He slings his bag over his shoulder and stalks out of the studio, ignoring Irene's attempts at convincing him otherwise.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lying on his bedroom floor, Sherlock twirls a curl in his hair with his index finger as he lifts his legs and points his toes. It's a nervous habit he has, stretching late at night when he can't sleep, body restless. Which is precisely what John Watson has done to him. Made him nervous. Made him curious.

Why had John come down to the studio today? Why had he been watching Sherlock in the first place? Why had he come in and talked to him?

It's very rare that Sherlock doesn't understand things and the weight of the unknown is driving him a bit mad. He's used to being one step ahead, the smartest person in any room, but this? This is out of the depths of his intelligence. This is based purely on instinct.

Which is worthless when there is no previous experience to go off of. He curses himself for not having more knowledge on the mind field of dating. He's never gone out with anyone before. No one's ever asked, and he certainly hasn't put himself out there. He  _does_ have data to go off of for the probable outcome of that scenario although that isn't the only reason he hasn't tried.

Truth of the matter is, Sherlock has never had any interest in matters of the heart. No one's ever shown interest in him so why would he assume anyone had any?

Is that what this is? Is John  _interested_  in him?

He doesn't know.

Why doesn't he bloody  _know_?

Letting out a heavy sigh, Sherlock turns onto his stomach.

He needs more data.

He needs more conversations with John.

He bites his lip at the grin that threatens to take over his features. Another conversation with John Watson. Like that's a hardship.

The issue will be getting another chance.

The possibility of John stopping by the studio again isn't high. And the chances of Sherlock growing a pair and seeking him out are even lower.

Sherlock groans into the carpet of his bedroom floor, finding his thoughts circling right back to where they started. In confusion. In unknown. In total agony.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"We should go to a game," Irene says the next day as Sherlock pulls on baggy sweatpants over his tights.

He throws her a suspicious glare as she tugs a hoodie over her head. "Why?"

Irene smirks. "Why not?"

"Because I have no business at a rugby game," Sherlock says, double-checking the contents of his bag to make sure he has everything. "You are more than welcome to go alone."

"What would be the point of that?" Irene grumbles, "I'm not the one interested in cute boys in shorts."

"I seem to recall you referring to a certain captain as a gorgeous beast?"

"Oh, well yeah, John  _is_  delectable," Irene croons, a spark of mischief gleaming in her eyes. "Just because I have no interest in purchasing the rose doesn't mean I can't smell it."

"That's a terrible analogy," Sherlock laughs, pulling free a long-sleeve shirt from his bag. Sometimes he wishes he had the kind of confidence Irene seems to ooze. It would help him so much navigate the treacherous waters of an impossible crush.

Irene snorts, shouldering her bag and making her way out of the studio. Sherlock just hears her breath hitch before she calls, "The game is on Friday. I  _definitely_  think we should go."

"Again," Sherlock sighs, pulling on his t-shirt and going to follow, "why? There is literally no reason for me to be at rugby game."

"Yeah, there isn't much of a reason for most people," John's voice filters from around the corner and Sherlock freezes where he stands in the doorway. "Although, people do love shouting at a bunch of sweaty men chasing after a ball."

Sherlock falters for a moment longer, panic seizing in his chest. John is here. Again. John is at the ballet studio  _again_. That  _cannot_  be coincidence, can it? Or maybe it is? Sherlock's head spins as he steps around the corner to find John leaning against the wall, bound in his navy rugby jacket, grinning knowingly at him, eyes bright and twinkling.

"I- I didn't mean..." Sherlock tries and fails to explain why he sounded like such a prat just then.

John laughs. "I actually agree with you. If you don't like the sport, there wouldn't be any reason to attend the game, right?"

Sherlock worries at his bottom lip and glances down. "Right," he mumbles to John's shoes.

"Although," John's feet take a step closer to him and Sherlock suddenly can't breathe. "If you were doing, say, I don't know, an  _experiment_ of sorts, that may be cause for you to attend, yeah?"

The bands of panic around Sherlock's chest loosen, unwinding their death grip and making him feel light enough to float away. Is John... is John asking him to go to his game?

He clears his throat. "What kind of experiment?"

John tips his face up to the ceiling as though in deep thought. "Uh… the affects tackles have on the brains of morons?"

Sherlock snorts in a rather unflattering way but he can't really help it. "I... I suppose that would be a reason to attend, yes," Sherlock agrees with a chuckle.

The grin John throws at him could light up the cloudy sky of London any day of the week. "Good, that's settled. It's Friday night at seven. Don't be late."

Sherlock doesn't have the wherewithal to respond as John spins on his heel and heads off.

"See you Friday!" He calls over his shoulder.

"Yes he will," Irene mutters for only Sherlock's ears as she steps out from behind the door she'd been using as a hiding place.

"You're insane," Sherlock grumbles.

"And you're totally getting laid this weekend," Irene retorts.

The choked garble of an attempted breath is Sherlock's only response, his thoughts suddenly taking a dangerous turn. John Watson just asked him to attend his rugby game.

How much more confusing could this situation become?

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"This isn't so bad," Irene says happily, snuggling closer to Sherlock on the small space they'd squished themselves into in the crowd of screaming fans. It's chaos. Completely uncivilized. And cold as shit.

"I'm freezing," Sherlock grouses, glaring out onto the pitch as though it has personally offended him. He feels that it has. If it weren't for this stupid rectangle of mud and chunks of grass, Sherlock would be home right now, sipping hot tea and soaking his battered toes in a footbath. His eyes flutter at the thought as his bones chill beneath his coat.

He doesn't even know how he ended up here in the first place. He had no intentions of going. Every hour of the past two days he'd reminded himself he was in fact not going to go to the rugby game he was currently at.

Well.

Maybe not  _every_ hour.

Not the hours after ballet rehearsals in particular.

When John bloody Watson decided it was a good idea to show up again, hands dug in his pockets, hair wet and skin damp, freshly showered from practice, navy jacket zipped up to his chin accenting his already sparkling blue eyes, giving them a deep glowing affect. His pink lips would curve into a shy smile as Sherlock came sauntering out of the studio looking like a hot mess, baggy sweats covering his skintight tank tops and thin tights.

And Sherlock very much doesn't understand why John keeps coming by. Keeps waiting for him outside the studio. Keeps grinning at him and laughing with him and teasing him. He doesn't understand why John is spending time with him. It doesn't make any sense.

And neither did this. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be indulging this odd frequency of events. John's visits by the studio were purely coincidental. And he didn't actually need Sherlock here, he was probably just joking when he said he should come. Or maybe he'd thought Sherlock wouldn't come so he invited him just to be polite. Or maybe he liked Irene and was trying to get her attention by becoming friends with-

Jesus.

John's in his head.

And for the tenth time, Sherlock goes to stand, prepared to make some grand statement to Irene about how he shouldn't be here and make a dramatic exit when a loud cheer rings out to the left of him. He and Irene whip their heads around to see a bundle of boys wrapped in blue and white striped jerseys and knee socks jog out to the field, huddled together. The crowd booms with excitement, familiar names being shouted and hands clapping sharply. It's noisy and unpleasant but Sherlock barely hears it.

He's too focused on the blond-headed boy leading the pack, his back to Sherlock but his stalky body all too familiar from Sherlock's memory of brief minutes spent together and increasingly dirty dreams it's been provoking.

John Watson's shaggy head glistens slightly from the mist, compact frame looking unspeakably fit in thick stripes pulled tight over broad shoulders and ripped arms and Sherlock isn't sure if he's going to be able to make it through this game without doing something horrifying like adjusting himself in his trousers or losing himself in a filthy fantasy.

Christ, what is wrong with him?

Of course, all those thoughts come to an abrupt halt as John turns.

Sherlock watches, glued to blue eyes scanning the crowd, head on a swivel, eyeing each patron and nodding at those he knows, seeming uninterested in any further communication, gaze skittering away across the crowd.

He's looking for someone.

Sherlock's heart sinks like a stone down into his stomach.

John is looking for someone. Obviously someone who came here to see him play. Probably a girl. John has lots of girlfriends. It hasn't skipped Sherlock's notice. He bites his lip, watching as John continues his search, wanting desperately to know just whom John is searching out and why it hurts Sherlock's heart so much.

And then blue connects with green.

Sherlock's green.

And his heart abruptly rises up from his stomach and lodges itself in his throat.

It's like lightning striking his very core as John's eyes lock in on him, like a predator to his prey, zeroing in and Sherlock could have sworn up and down twice that everyone else in the world has disappeared for just a few moments as he stares back at that perfect boy, whose lips are parted but curved up, as though finding Sherlock in the crowd is the happiest surprise he's ever received.

A red-hot heat fills Sherlock's chest and creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks and face. John grins even harder and even from here Sherlock can see his shoulders rise up and down in a quiet chuckle, which makes Sherlock's blush deepen but he's grinning right back, never wanting to tear his eyes away from that beautiful boy in the center of the field. He bites at the corner of his bottom lip in a feeble attempt to quiet his smile but it does nothing to help. John shakes his head fondly just as another teammate claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him from his reverie and dragging him back to focus on the game. John glances over and nods in agreement and Sherlock's stomach swoops in disappointment at the charged moment ending.

Until John swings his head back around, shoots Sherlock a toothy grin and drops a wink before jogging to his team's bench.

Sherlock is certain if he'd been standing he would have fainted.

"Well, that was completely disgusting to watch," Irene grumbles next to him, though the hint of humor in her voice steals the bite from her words.

Sherlock tries to shoot her a glare but the happy glow in his face makes the look fall flat and Irene laughs. "Oh, now that's just pathetic," she teases, poking him in the rib with her elbow. "Now quit looking at me. Turn around and watch your boyfriend frolic around in that sinful uniform."

"He's not my boyfriend," Sherlock murmurs, choking slightly on the words and the want that settles deep in his stomach. He would like John to be his boyfriend. Sherlock would like that very much indeed. "He's straight," he forces out through gritted teeth, more for his benefit than Irenes, though even he has to question that after the look John just gave him.

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Irene murmurs in her devilish voice.

Sherlock ignores her and sets about watching intently, planning to take in every move John makes out on that pitch.

Turns out the game is actually quite mesmerizing.

Or, well,  _John_  is quite mesmerizing during the game would be a more apt way of putting it. John Watson was born to play this sport and it shows as he dominates the field and all the players in his path. He sprints and jumps and tackles and yells in this ridiculously sexy captain voice and Irene has to place a finger under Sherlock's chin to close his mouth for him. Twice.

He's enthralled with the blond boy and he can barely be arsed to care, mouth filling with saliva as John gets sweatier and muddier and filthier as the game continues, the dark spots of dirt across his face accenting the deep flush in his face beautifully. Sherlock's lips are chapped and red by the end of the first half from constantly licking and biting them. He barely notices Irene sniggering at his side throughout the match.

The team wins, mostly thanks to the unstoppable force that is John Watson, and a roar of excitement rips through the crowd as the game comes to a close. Sherlock stands with the rest of the crowd, the chill in his bones long since melting away, and goes to step toward the stairs.

"What're you doing?" Irene hisses, eyes wide, still perched in her seat.

Sherlock frowns, glancing between her and the exit. "Leaving?"

"You can't leave!" Irene barks, giving his arm a hard yank to bring him back down to a sitting position. "You have to stick around to congratulate him."

Cold sweat immediately forms on Sherlock's brow. "I... I don't think I should-"

"Trust me," Irene replies sternly. "He wants to see you. Did you miss all the glances he threw in your direction the entire game? He's been eye-fucking you for two goddamn hours."

Sherlock blinks and swallows. He hadn't noticed.

"Who knows, he may want to  _celebrate_ ," Irene croons, grinning wickedly as Sherlock glares.

"He has a whole team to celebrate with."

"Not ones that will suck his dick for him."

His eyes may actually pop out as they bulge at Irene's vulgarity. "What is wrong with you?" he whispers harshly, glancing around to be sure no one heard.

Irene laughs. "Come on little virgin boy, you know you want to. You want John's big, hard-"

"Oh my  _god_ , why are we friends?" Sherlock barks moving to stand, his cheeks burning.

Cackling, Irene tugs on his sleeve to bring him back down. "I'm kidding," she grins, laughter dying in her throat as Sherlock slumps back down beside her. "I'm kidding, Sherlock, really. You don't… you don't have to do that. Not if you don't want to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. " _Please_  tell me you're not giving me the sex talk right now?"

Irene's lips twitch. "Well which would you rather talk about? Safe sex or just the sex in general? You can't have it both ways."

"I hate you."

Irene snorts. "I'm just saying, I know John is more experienced. But don't feel like you have to do anything just because he-"

"Stop," Sherlock demands, throwing a hand up. "I can take care of myself, thanks. Besides, this is a moot point. John doesn't even… I mean we're not… he doesn't… he likes girls."

Irene gapes at him. "You can't really be that oblivious can you?"

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Sherlock huffs. "He probably just wants to be friends or something."

Irene stares for a very long moment before running a hand through her hair and glancing up to the sky as though hoping to find the patience to deal with Sherlock's apparent stupidity somewhere up there. "This is why I prefer women," she grumbles to the clouds. "Sherlock," she lets out a long suffering sigh. "He likes you. Okay? John Watson likes you. He's got a big gay crush on you. Whether he's straight or bi or what have you, it doesn't matter because  _he likes you_. You can't be this obtuse."

Sherlock ignores the stirring in his belly and instead rolls his eyes. Irene doesn't know what she's talking about. Irene is popular. Irene has friends and dates and parties and a life outside of ballet. Sherlock does not. How on earth could someone like John ever fancy the weird, dancer boy in his class? It doesn't make any sense.

Irene glares for a moment longer before smoothing her face into the fakest smile she can manage and Sherlock is just about to raise a condescending eyebrow and ask who she thinks she's fooling when-

"Hey!"

John's pleased voice comes from the bottom of the bleacher stairs and Sherlock has to physically restrain himself from closing his eyes and praying for the world to crack open and swallow him up. He shouldn't have stayed. He should have left.

"Great game!" Irene calls in false pleasantry, smiling brightly and, god help him, knowingly.

"Thank you," John beams, and Sherlock turns just in time to find the radiant smile on John's face is aimed in his direction.

"I was just saying goodnight to Sherlock," Irene lies, standing and stretching. "It's getting late anyway. Nice night for a stroll but I have to get home."

She glances at Sherlock, who throws her the most intense, serious,  _if you leave me right now I will fucking murder you in your sleep_  glare he can possibly muster, before she grins evilly at him and plasters that overly happy smile on her face again. "You boys have a nice night!"

And with that, she bounds down the stairs and out of sight.

Sherlock stares down at his hands, unable to meet John's gaze, feeling stupider than he has in years.

"Well, that was… bizarre," John huffs an uncomfortable laugh.

"Well that's Irene for you," Sherlock sighs, sweaty fingers twisting. "Bizarre and conniving and also my ride home."

John snorts out a laugh and Sherlock just dares a peek to see him grinning from ear to ear. "I can give you a ride."

Sherlock's face heats on cue. "Oh… no, that- that's okay, I didn't mean… I mean I can walk, it's not that far or anything, I was just… I mean it's not…"

John giggles again like watching Sherlock struggle to redeem himself from his snafu is the most endearing sight he's ever seen. He jerks his head back toward the car park. "Come on," he beckons. "I'll give you a lift."

Rubbing the back of his neck, Sherlock hesitates for only a moment before standing, searching high and low for a way to stop coming off as such a complete and total wanker as he goes to follow.

"Woah, what's going on here?"

All Sherlock's hopes of coming out of this interaction with John looking somewhat normal are completely dashed as Phillip Anderson smirks up at them from the bottom of the bleachers.

"Anderson," John tips his head in acknowledgement, but Sherlock catches a hint of irritation in his words. "We were just heading out."

Anderson barks an eerie, nasty little laugh. "We? You two are friends?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to deny it. Of course they aren't friends. He would never do that to John. He would never let anyone at school think the rugby captain associates with the freak.

John, to Sherlock's complete shock, beats him to it.

"Yeah, we are," John shoots back, body bristling. "Why do you care?"

Anderson snorts. "What is this, Be Nice to the Fairy Day? You can't really-"

"Actually, I think it's Anderson Go Fuck Yourself Day," John replies coolly with a smirk. "You should definitely go and celebrate. My _friend_  Sherlock and I are going to head out."

Anderson looks about as stunned as Sherlock feels, but he doesn't have much time to revel in the idiotic gape of the dumbest boy in school as his brain preoccupies itself with memorizing the feel of John's warm fingers around his wrist. "Come on," John grumbles, tugging him around the frozen, idiotic boy standing in their way.

John lets go as soon as Sherlock has the wherewithal to even his pace with John's and Sherlock silently curses himself for righting his steps. If he'd just slowed a bit, John's hand would still be around his wrist and if he maneuvered just right, he could have slid his palm into John's and-

"I'm sorry about that," John says in a rush, running a frantic hand through his hair. "Anderson's a tosser. I'm planning to run his arse into the ground come Monday afternoon for that little stunt he just pulled."

Sherlock's lips twitch, heart thudding harder against his ribs. John Watson just stood up for him. Not that he needs protecting but the fact that he'd been certain he was about to be humiliated in front of said boy lit Sherlock's insides with a happy glow. "You have nothing to be sorry about," Sherlock mutters. "Anderson's stupid at the best of times. I mean, fairy? Really? Can't get anymore creative than that? Pathetic."

John barks out a laugh. "Very true."

"Still, that um… that thing you did," Sherlock tries to articulate his gratitude. "That was um…good of you."

He can feel John beaming at him and just when he thinks the warmth of the look can't feel any hotter John's hand bumps against his in an accidental brush.

He might as well have struck a match and pressed it into Sherlock's skin with how his flesh burns at the touch.

"So," John says a bit too casually and Sherlock wonders if he also noticed the touch or just Sherlock's reaction to it. "What did you think?"

"Of Anderson?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "I thought we established he's a moron."

John giggles that happy little sound again and Sherlock's heart skips a beat. "No, I meant about the game," John grins.

"Oh," Sherlock quickly races through his mind for something adequate to say, realizing the only thing he's picked up about rugby during the last two hours is how damn good John Watson looks playing it. "Um, it was… interesting."

John snorts as they reach his car, finding his way to the driver's side. "You don't really think that, do you?"

Sherlock gives himself a minute to think it over as they each slide in to their seats and John starts the vehicle.

"You hated it, didn't you?" John's words are teasing and Sherlock glances over to see John smiling out at the street before them.

"I didn't hate it," Sherlock argues. "It was just different."

If different means hot as all fucking hell.

John laughs again. "Well, thank you for coming. You didn't have to."

Sherlock smiles down into his hands, trying to keep his breathing even. John sounds genuine. They make their way through the streets, Sherlock rattling off directions to his house in between John's attempts at small talk. If Sherlock didn't know any better, John seems nervous.

"Jesus," John breathes as they roll up in front of a large home at the end of a block. "Is this your house?"

Sherlock nods, ignoring the shock on John's face. He's already humiliated himself enough for tonight. It might just be time to get out of here and to the safety of his room. "Well, thank you for the ride-"

"Hey, wait," John lays a hand on Sherlock's forearm, causing the dancer's body temperature to skyrocket. "Um, so, next week is your show, right?"

Nodding dumbly to the window, Sherlock doesn't trust himself to speak.

"I was thinking I could... come by."

Sherlock whips his head around to stare. "What?"

"Oh, I-" John falters, hand moving from Sherlock's arm to his own lap, fidgeting under the scrutiny. "I just thought since you came to my game... I thought it might be fun to go to your thing."

"It's ballet," Sherlock replies with a furrowed brow. "I can promise you won't find it fun."

Lips twitching, John gives a playful glare. "What, you think the rugby brute can't handle a little dancing?"

Sherlock laughs. "I just think you'll be bored."

"I won't," John replies hastily. "Trust me."

Something about those four words charges the air in the small space between them. Sherlock holds his gaze, searching for those words to mean something he can understand. Something he can work with. Blue irises stare back at him, unblinking, pink lips parted below them as though John might say more, hesitating for an unknown reason.

"I- okay," Sherlock concedes, looking away and breaking the trance, unable to stand it for another moment. It's too much. Too much unknown. Too much confusion. Too much  _want_. "If... if you want to come you... you can."

"Oh, I didn't need your permission," John says in feigned surprise. "I'd be there no matter what."

"Right," Sherlock chuckles, turning back toward the door. "Well, have a-"

"I may get lost on the way there, though," John says hurriedly, digging a hand into his pocket. "You know, traffic and parking and a whole mess of other things. You think I could get your phone number just in case I need directions?"

The recital is at their school. The place John goes every day of the week for six hours a day. There is no way he could get lost.

Sherlock glances back and catches the glint in John's eyes, the pleading, wide-eyed stare of a nervous boy putting himself out there, bottom lip pinched and worried between his teeth.

Oh.

_Oh!_

"Yeah if... if you get lost you can... you can text me," Sherlock mumbles, taking the phone from John's outstretched hand and quickly adding his number, biting down hard on the grin threatening to take over his mouth.

"Great, thank you," John replies in a whoosh of relieved breath. "Anything could happen, you know. Freak accident."

"Road construction changing the routes," Sherlock tries to support the improbable theories, offering a weak, concerned nod.

John snorts. "They could change all the street names."

"They could tear out the parking lot."

"You gotta be prepared for anything, really," John laughs.

Sherlock grins. "Thank you for the ride, John."

"Thank you for the phone number, Sherlock."

Sherlock is still grinning as he closes himself away in his room, already cradling his phone to his chest in anticipation for a message that may not come for another week.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock peeks out from behind the curtain, scanning the still lit up crowd for a blond head.

"He'll be here," Irene grabs his shoulder and pulls him back. "He will."

Sherlock shrugs, feigning unconcern and failing. He's nervous. He's checked the crowd and his phone more than one hundred times each but there hasn't been any sign of John Watson.

Maybe he decided against all this.

Maybe he decided ballet wasn't something he'd be interested in seeing.

Maybe Sherlock had been a colossal idiot for believing otherwise.

Their teacher calls places and Sherlock makes his way to his spot.

"Just breathe," Irene murmurs beside him. "He'll be here when it's over."

The curtain peels open and the crowd before them turns black.

And Sherlock loses himself in what he does best.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Well, I definitely wasn't bored," John's voice echoes in the small studio, words bouncing off the walls and rattling Sherlock's thoughts out of order. "That was... that was something else."

Sherlock had waited an unnecessary amount of time after everyone else had filtered out of their practice room, dreading finding out if John had actually shown up or not, almost deciding he didn't want to know.

Attempting to keep his calm demeanor, Sherlock shoves his pointe shoes into his bag with shaky fingers and turns to face the boy he'd been dancing for the entire night. He hadn't known if John was out in the crowd, not for certain, but now he knew and it was more than overwhelming. "I'm glad you liked it."

"I liked..." John trails off before finishing his sentence, glancing around at anything but Sherlock, gently shaking his head. "Yeah, I- I liked it."

The gentle squeak of John's shoes on the hardwood floor as he fidgets echoes around the solid room as they stand in awkward silence. Sherlock bites down hard on his lip, wanting nothing more than to express his gratitude without it sounding so desperate. John could be here for any number of reasons. Maybe he enjoys ballet. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he wanted to be Sherlock's friend and this was what friends did for each other.

Not for the first time, Sherlock curses his inexperience in this area. Why can't he tell? Why doesn't he know if John likes him like that or not? Why is all of this so bloody confusing?

"Well," he mumbles as a small shiver runs down his spine. His sweat is drying hard and sticky against his skin, settling him in an uncomfortable chill. "I'm, um… thank you for coming."

He swallows hard on a pained squeak as he bites his tongue. He has no idea if John was here for him or not. He shouldn't have said anything. It's so stupid, he should-

"You're welcome," John murmurs back, stepping closer and peering up at Sherlock from underneath his preciously curled blonde eyelashes. "It was… you're really brilliant up on that stage."

Swallowing promptly becomes impossible as Sherlock's throat runs dry, the praise coming from this boy somehow meaning so very much he can barely stand it. He nods, face burning with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure all wrapped into one. "Thank you," he mumbles and before he can stop himself, before he can truly think it through, he's swaying forward, stepping once, twice, just close enough to lay a gentle kiss on John's cheek.

A small gasp leaves the lips of the boy in front of him and before Sherlock can panic, before he can begin stuttering apologies and flee from the room, John's hand is suddenly on the back of his neck. It's not forceful, not even pushing, just a soft, unsure touch, fingers gliding into the hairs at the base of his skull.

"Sherlock," John breathes the most beautifully broken breath and suddenly all of Sherlock's apprehension and confusion and uncertainty fade to nothing.

John is touching him.

John is  _choosing_  to touch him.

Sherlock leans closer, following John's lead and laying a hand of his own on John's shoulder. It's not the most intimate of body parts but Sherlock is so nervous, he needs to steady himself more than anything else because the way John is looking at him right now could very easily bring him to his knees.

They hover close, the question no longer if but when and Sherlock is worrying they'll both chicken out because he sure as hell isn't going to do it, but then one small movement shifts his perspective and in all honesty he can't say who moves first.

All he knows is John's soft, recently licked lips are pressing to his in the gentlest of touches. His fingers on John's shoulder move, sliding up his neck and cupping his face, the cheek warm beneath his touch.

John hums and tilts his head, applying a bit more pressure to Sherlock's mouth. And Sherlock, unable to think properly, wilts like a flower into the touch. John's lips move against his in slow, deliberate waves, delicately pushing and pulling and prying and Sherlock gasps, mouth falling open at the tiny sparks that seem to light every place that John touches him.

Those sparks turn into full on flames at the first contact of John's tongue against his, delicately sweeping into his mouth and rolling over Sherlock's. The moan that rumbles from deep within Sherlock's chest should be humiliating but it's difficult to care when it seems to do nothing but spur John on, his hand clenching in Sherlock's curls a bit tighter, mouth moving quicker over his. Sherlock almost forgets to breathe, his world tilting and blurring around the edges as John delves his tongue deeper, tasting the backs of his teeth. He tastes  _divine_ , like sweet tea and warmth and comfort and home and Sherlock is shifting closer, pressing his barely clothed body closer to the radiating heat rolling in waves off the rugby captain's frame. He barely notices his hands wandering down that fit torso, feeling John's hard muscles beneath his fingers. God bless the sport of rugby.

John squirms and moves closer, pinning Sherlock's body to his, growling quietly in his throat as Sherlock whimpers, attempting to keep up with the increasing ferocity of John's kiss.

The blond boy rips his mouth free and for a split second Sherlock feels the sting of rejection begin to burn a hole in his chest before he realizes John hasn't gone far, instead planting open mouthed kisses to Sherlock's cheek and jawline, then burying his face in Sherlock's neck. "Christ," he breathes between gentle sucks and Sherlock grabs at him, one hand sliding into blond fringe and holding him to the bend where his shoulder and throat meet, moaning at every lick and every soft pinch of a bite. "Jesus, Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock moans back, unwilling to loosen his grasp, the thought of John moving away from him becoming completely unacceptable. "What is it?"

"I didn't... I didn't think you wanted this. You're bloody impossible to read," John grumbles, the next bite a little harsher against Sherlock's collarbone, although Sherlock can't say he didn't enjoy the pain or the soothing swipe of tongue that followed.

"Me?" Sherlock breathes. "What about you? You weren't... it wasn't exactly clear."

"How much clearer could I have  _been_?" John groans, lips finding their way to Sherlock's ear and exhaling heatedly. "I came here every day to see you. I asked you to come to my game. I asked for your  _phone number_ for godsake."

"Well I've never done any of this, how was I supposed to know those were signs?"

He immediately regrets his words as John stills beneath his touch. Fuck. They've kissed all of one time and already Sherlock is already outing himself as the pathetic virgin who knows nothing.

It's completely humiliating.

"And you're sure?" John murmurs against his skin, not moving away but hovering. Waiting. "You're sure this is-"

"God yes," Sherlock interrupts, dipping his head to capture John's lips again in a searing kiss, attempting to find the heat they'd been sharing only moments ago. "Yes to all of it, John."

John grins against his lips. "Oh thank god."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It doesn't take long for the questions to roll through Sherlock's slender body like cool wind, making him shiver in complete panic at the unknown. They'd done no clarifying after their brief words, instead opting to snog until their lips were chapped and faces red and a security guard came in and cleared his throat, letting them know the school was locking down for the night.

Then they'd continued to kiss in John's car for another thirty minutes before John gently pulled away, saying he needed to get Sherlock home.

It had been two days.

Two long miserable days without laying eyes on John Watson and Sherlock wonders if he's going mad as he hurries to school early, hoping he can catch a glimpse of blue eyes before the dreadful day starts and he won't see him until after both their practices are over. Of course, he's heard from John, a couple text messages over the weekend, but it's done nothing to soothe his racing thoughts.

He's practically running, body vibrating with questions and anticipation and need and want and so many other emotions Sherlock can hardly stand it. He hustles down the practically empty corridor of their school and off in the direction of the car park, planning to strategically place himself near the door in an unobtrusive stance. He'll be able to see John coming up the walkway but won't seem like he's waiting for him. Just in case John doesn't want to talk to him, he won't feel cornered. Just in case this... this thing between them is a secret.

One of Sherlock's many burning questions.

Are they hiding it from the rest of the school? Sherlock wouldn't mind if it would make things easier for John. No reason to turn the student body against their beloved rugby captain for snogging the weird kid.

Another question. Is that all they were doing? Snogging? Or were they going to go further? Did John want Sherlock's virginity? Because Sherlock would happily give it up to John. Right now. Today. Why wouldn't he want to be with his boyfriend like that-

Another question. Is John his boyfriend? Or were they just fooling around? Did John like Sherlock or was he just attracted to him? Probably the latter. Not many people actually  _liked_  Sherlock. It's more likely John just likes kissing him. That was okay too. Whatever John wants. Sherlock is happy to oblige. Hiding away in the school to snog. Hiding away in the studio to snog. Hiding in each other's bedrooms to-

Ah. And yet another question. Did John want to see him outside of school? Or was this more of an on-site type of situation? If only-

All thoughts and questions and panic freeze into ice and promptly shatter into nothing as Sherlock takes in a blond head appearing from down the line of cars, blue eyes squinting against the unusual sunny morning, John Watson's megawatt smile gleaming as he glances up at the blue skied morning. Sherlock's mouth runs dry. Did John get more beautiful in two days? He must have. He didn't look that good last week. Last Friday. In the ballet studio. In Sherlock's arms.

A happy sigh escapes his lips as he watches John duck his head down, glancing at something Sherlock can't see in his hand. Sherlock's foot begins to tap itself against the tiled floor, wishing John would hurry up and walk inside so he could just see what was going to happen. See what John would do at the sight of him. See if he could get some questions answered.

He tears his gaze from John in the car park to his mobile suddenly buzzing in his hand. He glances down to see John's name flash above a text message.

_Let me know when you get to school._

Sucking in a sharp breath at an attempt to calm his wildly beating heart, Sherlock shoots off a response faster than he's ever done before.

_**I'm here.** _

He watches a happy grin bloom in John's face as he stares down at presumably his phone in his hand.

_Come out to the car park._

Sherlock barrels out the double doors before he's read the text fully, unashamed of his eagerness, eyes locked on his target.

John is already looking at him, smiling broadly, hands dug in his pockets, bound in his navy rugby jacket that lights up his eyes.

John reaches for him before Sherlock can hesitate with uncertainty and brings their lips together in a soft welcoming kiss. He hadn't noticed the tension he's been holding in his shoulders, only realizing it when it flows freely out of his body at the touch of John's mouth to his after two horrible days away. Sherlock hums, grabbing greedily and twisting needy fingers into blue fabric. John giggles. "Good morning, Sherlock."

"Hi," Sherlock murmurs back, tipping his head to the left for better access to John's lips.

"How was your weekend?"

"Miserable."

John snorts. "Mine too. Are you busy later? After practice?"

Sherlock shakes his head, barely listening, wishing John would shut up so he could touch his tongue with his own, wanting desperately to double check that it still tasted sweet.

"Want to come to mine? I'll swing by the studio after practice and pick you up?"

Sherlock is nodding hurriedly. "Yes, yes, of course, now will you be please be quiet so I can kiss you?"

John giggles, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "Yeah alright, bossy."

Sherlock ignores him and the overly long day that's promised to be ahead of him, knowing at the end of it he gets to do this with John all over again.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Which is how Sherlock ends up sprawled out on his back on the floor of John's room, which he's barely had a chance to fully take in before John had him pinned to the wall, then dragged him down to his current position. He moans as the blonde boy hovering over him sucks a bruise into his neck. "John," he breathes, clutching his hands into John's hair.

John groans against his skin, sending vibrations down Sherlock's body. "Christ, I love it when you say my name."

The whimper that escapes Sherlock's lips is accompanied by an unauthorized roll of his hips, desperate for friction of any kind. His body is acting on its own accord, becoming increasingly sensitive to every one of John's ministrations. Which is what Sherlock blames his wandering hands to John's hips on, as they close around gently protruding bone and give a sharp yank, pulling John's pelvis down against his own in one motion.

Tiny flares crackle at the base of his spine as John's cock, hard against the zip of his trousers meets Sherlock's equally aching erection. He hasn't properly thought this through, hasn't asked if John wants to touch his shaft, hasn't asked permission to rut against John, rubbing in uncoordinated thrusts. He hasn't asked because he hasn't thought through what could happen if John touched his cock. If John's  _cock_ touched his cock.

Apparently, coordination is unnecessary to come as suddenly Sherlock begins to shake violently, hips stuttering up to meet John's, heat coiled so tightly in his belly Sherlock is certain he's about to snap in half.

And for all intents and purposes, he does.

Sherlock has experienced orgasms at his own hand plenty of times. He's young and curious and had figured no one else was going to do it for him so why not explore? He's come in his pants a handful of times before finding cleaner ways to wank, ashamed at the mess but able to shrug it off while alone.

Now, he's not alone. Now, he's coming hard and fast and rather intensely under the boy he's wanted for so very long and his body doesn't seem to care that this is the most horrific moment of his entire life as the waves of his orgasm wash through him. He's vaguely aware that he's moaning softly into John's shoulder, biting at the fabric of his t-shirt to stifle the noises but it would be obvious to even a stupid person what was happening to him. He can feel hot liquid covering the inside of his boxer shorts as they're pressed to his skin, John's hips grinding down against him only making it messier.

He's murmuring apologies and fighting against the blush in his cheeks, moving to pull away, certain John will be disgusted, when the boy atop him suddenly shifts, no longer pressing down on Sherlock's sensitive, spent cock but instead against his hip, rolling his hips once, twice, three times and a tiny gasp emits from John's lips into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock doesn't move, afraid if he does he'll ruin the moment or find that his hypothesis is entirely wrong but he thinks... he's almost certain John is orgasming if the push of his pelvis is any indication and heat blooms in Sherlock's chest for a very different reason.

John is coming.

John is experiencing pleasure from Sherlock. From snogging Sherlock.

He's elated, tightening his grasp on John's waist, burying his nose in John's hair, tiny thrills racing under his skin as he holds John's trembling body through his release.

This may be the best moment of Sherlock's entire life.

He's pleasured John. He's made John experience an orgasm.

He's preening like a bloody peacock as John slumps against him.

Until John suddenly pulls back to sit on his heels, face so perfectly flushed Sherlock wants to reach out and touch the reddened skin, trail fingertips over the skin and feel the heat.

John, on the other hand, looks mortified. He starts stammering out ridiculous words and Sherlock scrambles to a sitting position,

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- fuck, I should have asked you if that was alright, I'm sorry, that wasn't-"

"John," Sherlock gasps, hand shooting out to grasp John's forearm. "Stop. It's not... it's fine."

John hangs his head in shame, shaking it back and forth. "No, it's not, I should have asked. I should have made sure everything was fine. I should have..."

Sherlock begins to drown out John's bumblings as anger strikes red hot in his gut. "Hey," he spits, putting a halt to John's words. "I am fine. I'm not some delicate thing you have to coddle at every turn. I may be new to all this but I'm not incapable of saying no. You think I couldn't have knocked you right on your arse if I wanted you off of me?"

John gapes for a moment before pinching his lips together to hide his grin. "I'd love to see you try," he challenges.

Sherlock smirks, takes the bait, and lunges, grabbing John by the shoulders and taking him down to the ground, throwing a leg over his stomach and straddling him. He wraps long fingers around John's wrists and pushing them overhead into the carpet, effectively pinning him in place. John lets out a sound of surprise but grins nonetheless, barely struggling in Sherlock's grasp, eyes clouding slightly. "I knew those ballet muscles would come in handy at some point," John croones, reaching up to capture Sherlock's lips again, still bound to the floor in Sherlock's tight grasp.

"Oh, they can be used for more than just handling _you_ , John Watson," Sherlock teases back, blood pumping in his ears at his own words. They sound filthy and promising and suddenly Sherlock wants to do so much more than grind his clothed erection into John's and come in his pants. He wants... god he wants so much more.

The way John is kissing him is a clear indicator he feels the same way but seeing as they both just came, Sherlock can already feel the heated kiss waning to something calm and tender.

"You promise?" John murmurs over his lips. "You promise you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable with... with anything?"

"I promise," Sherlock agrees, sealing it with a kiss. "I'll tell you."

"Okay. Because I don't want to hurt you," John whispers fiercely and Sherlock wonders if he means more than he says.

"You won't," Sherlock murmurs. "You won't."

And goes back to snogging him with a passion, because for some unknown, unexplainable reason, Sherlock trusts John.

With his body.

With his mind.

With his heart.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock has been researching.

Studying.

Preparing.

If and when John wants it, Sherlock wants to be prepared. He wants to be ready for anything. He wants to be  _good_  at  _everything_.

He still has questions. So many questions, but he's putting them off for now. For now, he's enjoying getting to snog John Watson before and after school and on weekends and after games and rehearsals and whenever they can steal a moment alone like they have been for the past few weeks.

And it's just shy of enough.

It's intoxicating, wanting someone like this. He's read all about teenage hormones and increased sex drives at a young age but this… no book discusses this. No book details what this feels like. Wanting someone like this. Needing someone like this.

And Sherlock knows, he  _knows_  he's ready. Ready to move forward. Ready to give it up. Ready to give it all to John.

"Hey!"

Sherlock is pulled from his deep thoughts by John's hand on his shoulder, jerking around to find the blond boy grinning at him. "John?"

John snorts and drops down into the seat across from his in the cafeteria.

They've hardly interacted at school. It's not intentional, they just don't have any classes together and have two different lunch periods. It's unpleasant and only festers Sherlock's curiosity as to if they are keeping this whole affair between them a secret, but he's bit his tongue thus far. He doesn't think he wants to hear the answer and things have been going so well.

"So, I switched my free period and my lunch period around," John explains nonchalantly as he reaches for his book bag. "I mean, what is the point of a free period if you're stuck in the library while your boyfriend eats lunch only a few rooms away?"

Sherlock stares, mouth agape, eyes wide at all the information that has just come pouring out of John's mouth. He tries to snatch each word and examine it for its definition, double check its meaning and sort out what in the hell it just did to Sherlock's life.

John, for his part, is blinking back at him, happy smile ebbing away as he takes in Sherlock shocked stare. "Too presumptuous?" John offers uncomfortably. "I just thought-"

"Boyfriend?"

The blush in John's cheeks is immediate, blue eyes widening. "Oh god, I'm sorry, did you... are we not... I mean, I thought we... But I suppose..."

The aborted sentences all add up to the same thing; while Sherlock has been panicking about what John thinks they are, John has gone ahead and assumed. And assumed the best possible assumption in the history of assumptions.

"We are!" Sherlock all but yells, gaining a couple disparaging glances from nearby. "We are," he repeats again, a bit softer. No reason to draw more attention to this delicate situation.

Which, again, is shattered when John reaches out to take his hand, lacing their fingers together in such an intimate, knowing way, Sherlock has to look away from their joined digits, tightening his grip a bit. "Good," John murmurs with a smile.

Sherlock nods at the wall. "Yes, good."

"Am I embarrassing you, boyfriend?" John teases, grinning as Sherlock turns maroon.

"No," he mumbles unconvincingly, fighting down the happy glow that threatens to redden his face further.

"Christ, you're adorable," John giggles, giving his hand a squeeze. "My boyfriend, the adorable dancer."

"Stop it," Sherlock tries to gripe, although the words come out weak, meaning the exact opposite of their definitions. He glances up from under his lashes to find unfriendly faces shooting shocked gazes between he and John and back to their joined hands. "People are staring."

"Let them," John murmurs. "I don't care. Do you?"

Sherlock shakes his head immediately. He doesn't care. All that matters is John Watson and his fingers wrapped around Sherlock's.

John lifts Sherlock's hand to his mouth and brushes a kiss across his knuckles. The hitched breath in Sherlock's throat is accompanied by a spin of his heart and several gasps from across the cafeteria.

John laughs. "People are going to talk."

"People do little else," Sherlock mutters, mesmerized by the heat of John's breath against his fingers. It's such a simple gesture and yet... the want that nestles in Sherlock's belly is unprecedented. Unexplainable. Demanding to be taken care of. Now.

Giggling, John keeps hold of Sherlock's hand as he starts in on his lunch.

"So, you have a free hour after this?" Sherlock murmurs, trying to sound like he's making conversation. Trying to sound like he isn't calculating a way to get himself into the back of John's car, with a very naked John Watson on top of him.

Glancing up, John's eyelids drop slightly as he takes in Sherlock's question. Sherlock had done his best to smooth his features into feigned indifference but the look on John's face is telling him he's failed miserably. He flicks his gaze toward the door, the one that leads out in the direction of the car park. John reads his eyes

"Yeah," John croaks, the word coming out breathless. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing with the movement and Sherlock follows it down the length of his throat, saliva filling his own mouth.

"Me too. Do you-"

"Yes," John whispers, already rising from his chair and Sherlock's insides flip.

They make their way through the lunchroom, ignoring the stares and slip out the back door, hands clasped together and John pulls him toward his car.

"You mad bastard," John giggles as he pushes Sherlock up against the side of his vehicle, hands firm on his waist. "You are absolutely  _mad._ "

"You like it," Sherlock teases, reaching behind his back and fumbling for the handle.

"I do," John murmurs, latching his mouth to Sherlock's neck. "I do so much."

They fall into the backseat when Sherlock finally manages to pull it open, laughter calming in favor of heady kisses and low moans. It's cramped and sweaty and bloody exciting and Sherlock's fingers are abruptly on the button of John's jeans. "Can I?" he breathes, more than ready for this. He'd done his research. He knows what to do.

"Yes, god yes," John babbles, "Whatever you want, yes."

The spark of lust mixed with boldness in John's needy words has Sherlock pushing him to a sitting position and settling himself on his knees next to John's hip. He leans over his waist, planting one hand next to John's thigh to steady himself, opening his flies with quick fingers, revealing pretty black pants with a telling bulge protruding from the front. Sherlock can't help but grin. He's been dying to see John's cock if he's being honest. He's felt it only a handful of times thus far, always covered, always hidden away in too many layers of fabric. His licks his lips as he slowly peels away the fabric, tugging both boxers and jeans down to John's thighs, giving himself room to work with.

John's cock springs free, flushed red and leaking dollops of white pre-come from the crown, looking for all the world like it could burst at any given moment. It's beautiful. Just like John.

Sherlock holds out a shaky hand to it, palming it with the flat of his hand before taking it in his grasp, his fingers starkly pale in comparison to John's blood-filled hard-on.

"Sh-Sherlock," John stutters, and Sherlock glances up to find John's head tilted back against the seat, eyes slammed closed, lips parted in a soft anticipatory pant. He watches in delight as he gives John his first stroke, pulling the foreskin up and back again with a long, firm drag of his hand. "Ohhh  _Christ_ ," John breathes, mouth twitching open wider as Sherlock does it again.

Struck with a bravery he has no business having, Sherlock lowers himself toward the cock in his hand and gently slips his wet mouth around the feverish head.

The response is instant. John jerks where he sits, pants turning into gasps, fingers digging into cloth on either side of his hips. " _Jesus_ ," he cries, white-knuckling the curve of the backseat. "Fuck, baby."

Wrapping his lips over his teeth, Sherlock glides downward, swirling his tongue in the process, savoring the taste of John's pre-ejaculate on his tongue, reveling in the fact that John is currently in a state of panicked bliss because of _him_. _He_  did that to this gorgeous captain.  _Sherlock_. He forces himself not to grin, not trusting himself not to scrape his teeth along John's sensitive skin in the process, something he'd never forgive himself for. He wants this to be good.

No, he wants this to be perfect for the boy groaning under his touch.

He pulls up, sucking on the leaking head like he's learned during his research, adding his palm to the slick base and pumping gently.

In hindsight, he should have been more prepared.

John goes silent and Sherlock mistakes that for a free moment and he loosens his mouth to take a breath.

Which is when thick, bitter liquid spills onto his tongue.

It doesn't shoot everywhere like Sherlock had sort of assumed it would, but instead leaks out in large quantities, filling the curve of his tongue and dripping down onto his lips. He can't see John's face but he hopes very much that it's frozen in pure ecstasy. Sherlock reminds himself to be better prepared next time and position himself to be able to see his boyfriend's face when he comes.

John's thighs tremble slightly and a heavy exhaled breath whooshes against Sherlock's curls. He pulls off, not wanting to hurt John's oversensitive skin and glances up to find John watching him through slitted eyes, still breathing hard, entire round face red as a cherry. Sherlock realizes too late that come is dripping down his chin, and he swallows the remaining liquid in his mouth in one gulp, bringing the back of his hand up to swipe away the stray dribbles.

John beats him to it.

Fingers curve against his cheek and a thumb brushes into the cool streaks along his lips. Sherlock's eyes flutter at the gentle touch, reveling in the attention even after the more intimate part has ended.

This, he hadn't been prepared for.

This, he  _couldn't_ have prepared for.

John is always gentle with him but they've done little more than coming prematurely while rutting against each other's clothed bodies so how could he know that John would be… like  _this_ when things got more intense?

"You're perfect," John whispers, thumbing at his own semen on Sherlock's face, rubbing it into the pores on his chin. It's utterly filthy and unbelievably sexy and Sherlock just now remembers his own hard cock sitting cradled in the bend of his trousers as he still sits on his knees at John's hip, palms planted on either side of John's thighs. John seems to be completely captivated by his come on Sherlock's chin, eyes roving over the streaks in something like awe.

He can't take it anymore.

Sherlock frees his trouser button and pushes at them as best he can with one hand until he can pull his own cock out, the heat of John's stare too much to handle. He begins long pulls over himself, eyes never leaving John's burning blue gaze. Sneaking his tongue out, Sherlock licks at the tip of John's thumb, laving over the pad in gentle caresses.

John gasps softly, suddenly coming to, eyes snapping to meet Sherlock's before lowering to where his hand is moving beneath his bent frame. "Oh," John breathes softly, watching Sherlock stroke himself. "Oh, let me, love. Please, god, let me touch you."

_Love._

_Baby_.

They are almost ridiculous. Silly little endearments. Meaningless, really.

Except they aren't meaningless when they rolled off John's tongue. They're perfect. Why they are, doing things to Sherlock he will never understand. Not just turning him on. That's already happening easily after John came in his mouth. Hell, after John bloody looked at him in the cafeteria. No, these names... they have a tender quality to them. A loving quality. Like John wouldn't just call anyone these names. Like Sherlock really is John's love. He should be ashamed for blushing at the praise but he's very much not.

Especially as John slides a hand down his belly and slips his fingers beneath Sherlock's, taking him in hand and taking over.

Sherlock bucks forward involuntarily, still propped up on his hands and knees, pushing into John's fist, letting out a deep, guttural moan of unadulterated pleasure. He drops his forehead against John's shoulder, stars dancing behind his eyes, crying out softly as John runs a thumb over the head of his cock.

"There you go, baby," John murmurs encouragingly in his ear. "Are you going to come? Will you come for me?"

Sherlock whimpers a yes as John gives a wicked twist on an upstroke, his free hand finding its way into Sherlock's curls and holding him against his shoulder, lips pressing to his ear. "I want to see you come all over my hand," he breathes heatedly and Sherlock rocks faster, body pulling taut as his orgasm pools in his hips, waiting to crash through him.

"I...I..." he tries and fails to articulate that, yes, he's about to… he's going to… he can't stop…

His hips shudder as he spills into John's hand, letting out quiet little noises into John's shoulder, his brain quickly going offline and shutting down completely at the feeling of John stroking him through it. He vaguely hears John's encouragements, holding him through it, with soft  _there you go baby_ 's and  _that's it_ 's and  _perfect, love_ 's.

And Sherlock loses himself, allowing himself to be wholly absorbed into John Watson and his beautiful words and his stunning body, and wonders vaguely if a wank at the hands of John Watson is this mind-blowing how on earth he's going to survive when they start having sex.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It takes all of two hours before Irene is grinning up at him as they walk in to the studio after school, looking for all the world like the cat who got the cream, eyes glinting with knowledge.

"So," she asks casually. "How are things?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Things are fine."

"How is John?"

"John is fine." He ignores the way his voice softens slightly around John's names.

"How's the sex?"

"Go away."

Irene pouts. "Oh come  _on_ ," she whinges. "Give me something. Just a little something. John never has to know."

"You are absurd."

"Well what is the point of having my nose in the middle of your blooming homosexual relationship if I don't even get details on what John is like in bed?"

"You could always _not_ stick your nose in the middle of my relationship."

"Well, what fun is that?"

Sherlock ignores her in favor of stretching, feigning deep concern over his calf muscles.

"He's not like… like pressuring you or anything, right?" Irene murmurs, voice suddenly soft and concerned. "Because you can… you know, talk to me. If you need."

Sherlock sighs, trying not to laugh. If anything Sherlock is pressuring John. "He's not doing anything like that," he mutters. "He's… he's perfect."

"Oh gross, okay, I don't want any of those details," Irene flips her hand as though to flick away Sherlock's words. "I don't care about you staring lovingly into each other's eyes and being disgusting. None of that interests me."

"Great, because I wasn't going to tell you anyway."

"Good."

"Great."

"Wonderful."

"Fantastic."

Irene stumbles on her retort and sits back on her palms on the floor. "Okay, but let me just say, before it gets weird and gooey and stupid, that I'm really happy for you and if he ever does anything wrong, I'll kill him."

"Going soft on me, Adler?" Sherlock teases.

Irene rolls her eyes. "Fuck off."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Why aren't we having sex?"

It may have been blunt, but Sherlock has never denied that as his forte.

John's fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes flicking up from the macaroni on his utensil to Sherlock's curious face. His neck begins to turn pink as he says, "Sorry?"

Sherlock fidgets where he sits across from him at their usual lunch table. Well, their  _recently_ usual lunch table. It's been at John's insistence and Sherlock's responsibility not the turn bright red as the rest of the school watches them. He knows it must be confusing, the ballet dancer and the rugby player together, especially when John  _insists_ on holding his hand and kissing his cheek and grinning from ear to ear as they walk down the hallways. It shouldn't be as gratifying as it is to watch the mouths of girls and boys alike drop open. And that's not even the best part.

The best part is John. John with his gorgeous blue eyes that soften with such fondness every time he looks at Sherlock it makes his heart ache. John with his shaggy dirty blonde hair that drifts just to the left of his forehead constantly making Sherlock want to drag his fingers through it and pull him close. John with that damn grin that lights up Sherlock's pounding heart with such brightness it makes it hard to breathe.

He  _adores_  John Watson. And the fact that John seems to adore him right back seems impossible.

Which is why he has to ask this humiliating question. The snogging is great. The snogging is fantastic, actually, but Sherlock knows John is an experienced, red-blooded male who has needs and wants. Yes, they've exchanged hand jobs and blowjobs on occasion, but it's been pretty infrequent given how much Sherlock enjoys it. And why John isn't constantly demanding something from him, isn't consistently coming on to Sherlock makes him a little anxious. Does he not want that aspect with Sherlock? Is it because he's also a boy? Is it because he's getting bored with Sherlock? He needs answers.

"Um," he mumbles. "Sex."

John lowers his fork and sighs. "Do you really want to talk about this here?"

Glancing around, Sherlock shrugs. They're out of earshot. "Why not?"

"Because it's a private, serious conversation that I'd prefer not to have over a pile of cold macaroni," John huffs.

Sherlock frowns, looking down to pick at the peeling plastic on the table. "It's just sex," he mumbles. What's the big deal? He's never had it only because he hasn't had the opportunity. Doesn't mean he hasn't thought about it. Or wanted it. Or perhaps conducted several experiments on himself bore from curiosity and raging hormones.

He'll leave that part out for now.

He glances up to find John fixing him with a furious glare. "Outside," John growls. "Now."

Before Sherlock can respond, John stands, leaving his lunch behind and marching to the nearest exit to the patio outside, not bothering to look back to see if Sherlock is coming. He scrambles to follow, a cold shiver of fear running down his spine. John hasn't been mad at him yet. He doesn't think he's going to like this.

John waits for the door to close before he turns to Sherlock, brow crinkled. "Sex  _is_ a big deal, Sherlock," John murmurs. "It's a big deal to me at least. I don't want to just… just jump into that until you're comfortable. Until you're ready."

"But I  _am_ ready," Sherlock curses himself as his words come out as a whine.

Throwing him a dubious look, John steps forward, laying a hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Even if you could say that more convincingly," John teases, running a thumb over Sherlock's cheek, "I'm not entirely sure if _I'm_  ready."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at John's blatant attempt to take the pressure off of him. "What do _you_  have to get ready for? You've done it already. Maybe not with a boy but it's the same idea."

The way John sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and worries at the skin with his teeth makes Sherlock freeze, suddenly realizing he's missed something. "John?"

"I haven't actually," John replies with a small lift and fall of his shoulder in an innocent shrug. "I'm, uh… I'm still a, um, virgin."

Sherlock blinks.

That doesn't add up  _at all_  to what he's seen. "But you're… the girlfriends," Sherlock blurts stupidly, trying to rationalize the facts. "You have a new girlfriend every month."

John glares. "That's actually not true but thank you for putting it so delicately." Scrubbing a hand down his face, he looks away from Sherlock into the courtyard. "Yes, I've had relationships but… I don't know. I guess I never felt that way about anyone. I didn't want to just do it with some random person I'd probably not be with for very long. None of them were…" he trails off, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Worth it?" Sherlock tries to supply, feeling like he's fallen rather wrong-footed in this conversation.

John shakes his head. "No, not like that, I guess I just didn't… I've never felt that way. About anyone." He kicks at something imaginary on the ground. "Not until you."

 _Not until you_.

Those three words seep into Sherlock's pores like warm liquid absorbing into every fiber of his being and warming him all over. He grins stupidly at the top of John's head because the blond boy is still staring at the ground, clearly refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

He bites the corner of his bottom lip, fighting the curve of his mouth but it's no use. He reaches out and tucks a finger under John's chin, tilting his head back up to meet his gaze. Those blue eyes catch his own green and soften from worry to affection in the span of one heartbeat, glowing with such tenderness Sherlock has to reach over and lay a kiss on that soft mouth. "I like you so much," he murmurs, the words slipping free before he can process how simple they sound, but John doesn't seem to care that the sentiment is primary school and instead lays a hand on Sherlock's cheek.

"I like you too," he whispers against Sherlock's lips with a grin, catching his lower lip and tugging. "And I do want to sleep with you. Trust me, I do. But I just… I want to be sure. I want it to be..."

"Perfect," Sherlock breathes.

John nods, still stealing kisses as they whisper together.

"Okay," Sherlock agrees. "Then we'll wait."

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience have never been Sherlock's strong suit.

After weeks – _weeks_  - of that idiotic conversation about waiting, Sherlock is currently dragging John into his bedroom, deciding measures need to be taken and Sherlock will be the one taking them.

Because Sherlock simply cannot  _take it anymore_.

John, for his part, seems perfectly at ease, popular feathers unruffled, pleasant smile plastered across his round face.

Sherlock wants to wipe that smirk away.

Sherlock wants that smirk to turn into something else. Something primal and fierce.

So it's rather gratifying to watch John's pupils dilate as Sherlock shoves him down onto the bed and crawls over him, straddling his hips. "I'm ready," he growls, kissing John's lips. "I'm ready, John."

"Fuck," John breathes. "Are you sure?" His question contradicts his words by pulling Sherlock further into his lap, kissing his neck. "We don't have to. There are other things we can do, if you want. Or we can just watch a movie instead-"

"John," Sherlock sighs against his ear, giving a gentle lick of encouragement, "I want to. So much."

The soft moan that escapes John's lips scalds Sherlock's skin like a branding, the heat of the sound making his body shiver all over.

"Christ," John groans, burying his face in Sherlock's shoulder. "I… I don't know how to…I've never…"

"It's okay," Sherlock murmurs confidently because this is actually something he did know about. He'd done research. That's what one does when one has a boyfriend. Or should do anyway. "I've got the condoms and the lubricant, and I know how much preparation I need."

John freezes for half a second before he pulls back to fix Sherlock with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. "What?"

Sherlock pauses too, suddenly feeling unsure as John gapes at him. "Um, you know the… the things we need to… to have… intercourse."

John's face doesn't flinch. He doesn't move a muscle. He simply stares.

Sherlock fidgets slightly in John's lap. "Not good?"

John's lips slide in over his teeth, pinching his lips together as the corners twitch, wide eyes softening to such fondness it makes Sherlock's cheeks heat. "Don't look at me like that," he mumbles, feeling silly as a thrill runs through him.

"I adore you, Sherlock Holmes," John whispers, the grin breaking out on his face in full bloom as a hand slides into Sherlock's hair, bringing his head back down for John to reach his lips again. "You are brilliant. I am totally unprepared but you… god you're brilliant. So incredibly _brilliant_."

He can't explain why that does things to him, but it does and Sherlock rolls his hips against John's with a quiet groan, feeling the air thickening around them with possibility again.

"Wait," John mumbles over his lips, although he doesn't pull away this time, still catching Sherlock's lips in his teeth in between his words. "How do you know how much preparation you need?"

"Practice," Sherlock breathes into John's mouth. "Only way to be sure."

"God, you… you've fingered yourself?"

The tiny hairs on Sherlock's body stand on end at those filthy words filtering into his ear from John's damp, delicious mouth and down into his bloodstream, vibrating him from the inside out with unimpeded want. "Yes," he whispers, remembering so many months ago, lying on his bed face down, arse in the air, reaching curious fingers down toward sensitive skin. It hadn't been unpleasant but Sherlock was certain he was missing something during his experiment, having read all about the prostate inside the male body and how it was supposed to feel incredible when touched.

Sherlock hadn't gotten that far, his action unexpectedly rushed, having made the mistake of stroking himself in the process, his inexperienced body needing release much sooner than he'd planned.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John groans, rocking his hips up into Sherlock's, hands gripping the dancer's waist to grind against. "Just the thought of you… oh god… and… and you're sure? You're sure you want to? Today? Because I can wait. Really, I can."

"I can't," Sherlock moans, tugging the hem of John's t-shirt. "I don't want to wait anymore." He pulls and John raises his arms compliantly, eyes a bit dazed.

"Fuck," John croaks, rolling them over and excitement floods Sherlock's frame as the captain looms over him. "Sherlock, you can't… Christ, you can't say things like that to me."

"Why?" Sherlock murmurs, nipping at John's lower lip. "I want to. I want  _you_."

Another groan escapes John's lips and his hands slide down Sherlock's torso. "You bloody perfect creature," he growls, every word and touch scorching over Sherlock's body. "How are you here? How do you exist? How are you-"

"Yours?" Sherlock cuts in desperately, shivering as John's fingers dip under his jumper. "Because I am, John. I'm yours."

A low, primal sound emits itself from the back of John's throat, and Sherlock keens beneath him in approval, wanting so badly to be taken by this gorgeous boy.

"Mine," John moans, fingertips trailing up Sherlock's belly, raking his jumper up with it. "All mine."

And then it's a blur, clothes being torn from arms and legs, hair being gently pulled, tongues getting dirty sucks as they undress each other frantically, bodies twisting and pulling, desperate for skin against skin.

"Wait, wait," John whispers as he settles between Sherlock's spread thighs. "Wait, I don't… I don't want to just fuck you, Sherlock. Not the first time."

Sherlock halts his frantic pulling and pushing and settles back under on the sheets at John's quiet words.

"Let me… let me take care of you," John whispers, kissing his lips gently. "Let me…"

_Love you._

Even unspoken, Sherlock hears the words loud and clear. Words neither of them are ready to say yet. John wants to love him. John wants to make love to him. He's certain his heart is going to rip free from his chest with how hard it lurches to the side as he takes in John Watson's tender gaze, eyes filled with such adoration it makes Sherlock ache. He reaches a hand up to John's cheek in a soft carress and smiles. "Alright," he whispers. "Go on then."

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He snaps awake in the middle of the night right on schedule, body surging to life at half past two, blinking into the darkness, fully alert and ready to rise.

Except tonight, he's no longer alone.

A soft, steady inhale and exhale of a boy's breath is filling the silent night, and Sherlock can just make out the steady rise and fall of his chest in the darkness.

John Watson is gorgeous when he sleeps.

Sherlock stays very still, watching John's every twitch, every murmur as he sleeps fast lying on his front, arms buried under the pillow beneath his head, hair sticking up on all sides. The ripple of his back muscles under his still naked skin are so alluring, Sherlock almost reaches out and touches them, thinking better of it at the last second, terrified of waking him.

He'll let him sleep. He plans to wear him out again in the morning anyway.

In one quick glide, Sherlock shimmies out of the bed without rustling the covers and pads to the loo in soft steps, closing the door neatly behind him.

Without meaning to, he turns to the full-length mirror and catches the reflection of his unclothed body, standing pale and out of place against the dim light of the small room. He runs a keen eye over himself, noting the small bruises and red blotches along his hips and thighs and shoulders and neck that really weren't that noticeable if one wasn't looking. But Sherlock is looking. Sherlock wants them there.

He bites his lip at the memory of where those came from. John's rough, calloused hands did that. John's teeth did that.  _John_  did that. He'd marked him thoroughly without meaning to, and may be sorry for it later but Sherlock certainly isn't. He trails his fingers along his collarbone, touching the delicate red marks and smiles softly.

He's not longer a virgin.

John Watson took his virginity.

He took John Watson's virginity.

It's almost impossible to believe but it's the truth. He sweeps his hands through his hair as he revels in his happiness, doing a small spin on his toes, tiny thrills trailing all over his body, mind racing with excitement and passion and so much love for John Watson he could cry. He loves John Watson. He's in love with John Watson.

He flexes his toes against the tile out of habit, watching as the muscles contract through his leg. He falls into first position, then second, appreciating his slender, toned body so much more now that he knows what it does to his lover. The things John whispers to him in moments of passion burn bright in his mind as he rises up on his toes, not quite on pointe but steady on the balls of his feet and lifts his leg up and out into an arabesque. He should be embarrassed, doing naked ballet moves in the privacy of his loo but love makes people do incredibly stupid things and Sherlock is happy to oblige the stupidity for now. He stretches his arms out, one in front, one behind and watches his form, the steadiness of his movements, the precision of his body. John has made him better. John has made his body better.

"God, you're beautiful."

Sherlock falters, almost tipping right over as he lowers himself back to the ground and turns to find John leaning against the frame of the door, arms crossed over his bare chest, somehow having recovered his pants even though Sherlock had put in a great deal of effort in tossing them far away, hoping to never see or hear from them again.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" he murmurs, trying to ignore the utter mortification of being found completely naked in the loo, posing in the mirror like an arrogant fool.

"Does it matter?" John croons, pushing off the frame and stalking toward him. "I'm awake now. And I have no intention of going back to sleep."

Sherlock's body heats for an entirely different reason. "Oh?"

"After finding you like this? Absolutely not."

"Oh," Sherlock breathes, practically feeling his pupils dilate as John reaches him, sliding hands over his hips and down over his arse and squeezing.

"Can I take you back to bed now?"

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, arms locking around John's neck. "God, yes."

John huffs a small laugh.

Then glides his hands down over Sherlock's smooth skin to the backs of his thighs, bends at the knee and lifts in one swift motion, pulling Sherlock's legs over his hips as he cradles his arse in his hands, as though lifting Sherlock is the same as lifting a feather. Sherlock gasps, locking his limbs in place and holding on, heat pooling in his belly at the demonstration of strength and overwhelming desire he can't control. "John," he cries softly, burying his face in his neck. "I… I'm a little sore."

John snorts, laying a kiss against Sherlock's bare shoulder. "I assumed you would be," he teases. "I had another idea."

He turns on one heel and carries Sherlock out of the loo with ease, as though carrying a fully grown boy isn't anything extraordinary. Or hot as hell. Sherlock trembles slightly, his cock filling rapidly against John's stomach. "What did you have in mind?"

John lays him down in the sheets and grins wickedly.

And as filthy, wet heat engulfs Sherlock's cock, he stops asking questions and stops wondering what's next and stops bloody thinking, his entire world focusing down to John and his mouth and his body and his perfection.

John is perfect.

And Sherlock loves him.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Oh Christ… Sherlock. You okay?"

Sherlock's breath hitches in his throat as he sinks onto John's cock, the flats of his feet planted on either side of John's hips, facing the end of the bed, where John's knees are hooked over the edge. He places his hands on the tops of John's shins for support as he lowers himself down. They've been getting adventurous lately and this was the newest addition to the venture out of missionary. He hadn't been sure he'd like this position, what with not being able to see John and all but it's… the angle is…

" _Oh_ -" he chokes as John's cock drags along his prostate at a different angle than ever before. He lets out a shuddering breath as his arse cheeks settle onto John's hips. He can hear John panting quietly behind him, calloused fingers digging into Sherlock's hips.

"Y-you good?" John breathes hoarsely, clearly struggling to keep himself under control.

"Yeah," Sherlock murmurs back, pulling himself up and dropping his hips back down again, slowly stroking John's cock within his body. "Yeah, you?"

John huffs a laugh that promptly turns into a groan, grip assisting in the movements on Sherlock gliding up and down on his length. "You really h-have to ask?"

Sherlock smirks, his legs shaking slightly beneath him and he leans back, planting his palms on either side of John's shoulders, taking some of his weight off of his thighs. He thanks his rigorous ballet practices for the strength in his legs. Who knew it would be such great training for sex?

He rocks his hips a bit more insistently, the angle much easier to nudge that sensitive spot inside him, and he groans. John thrusts his hips up to meet his slide down and Sherlock cries out loudly at the sudden rush of sparks that shoot through his body.

"S-Sorry-" John murmurs and curses, stilling his hips. "I didn't mean-"

Sherlock rocks faster. "Do it again," he demands, moving his hips insistently. He wants to feel that again, that rush of-

"Oh _fuck_ -" he all but shouts as John plants his feet and meets Sherlock's hips, rough and insistent and bloody perfect. "Oh yeah – _yes_  John, like that-" Sherlock starts to babble as John starts to fuck him harder, effectively bouncing Sherlock in his lap.

"Jesus… fuck-ing… gor-geous-boy…" John is muttering between thrusts.

"Harder," Sherlock demands, dropping his head back as John gasps. He can feel the ends of his curls brushing John's face. "Fuck me har- AH!"

John obeys with such tenacity, Sherlock can't stop the string of curses and moans that slip freely from his lips as John hits that point within him that drives him absolutely wild over and over again.

"You like that?" John croons from behind him filthily. God, he's  _filthy_. When had they gotten so filthy? Fuck, Sherlock loves it. He didn't know it could get better, didn't know that fucking the hell out of his boyfriend constantly could only get better and better but Christ, it had.

Sherlock is nodding, unable to speak, unable to  _breathe_ , only just registering that John may not notice him nodding with the constant bounce of his body throwing his head around.

Fingers slide into his hair and tug, pulling Sherlock's head back as the cock inside him continues to push throwing him upward as the hand on his hips pull him back down, consistently producing small, teasing flares of pleasure, coiling deeper and deeper inside his belly.

"Tell me you like it," John growls, grip tightening in his curls, just hard enough to make it exciting. Sherlock moans loudly.

"Fuck, yeah I- Oh I… like it I like it… give it… to me," he's practically sobbing, his neglected cock suddenly thickening without being touched, thumping harshly against his stomach as he rides John faster. "Don't… stop…"

" _Jesus_ , baby," John whispers harshly. "How… are you this… perfect…  _god_ …I…"

He can't explain it but he's certain he could get off on John's words alone. The way he talks to him during sex makes shivers run up his spine and shoot out to every nerve ending in his entire body, heightening the sensation of his impending orgasm.

"Fucking perfect," John is still muttering, throwing his hips up again and again. "So… goddamn… beautiful and…so… fucking… fuck….fuck  _fuck_ -"

He feels it before John warns him, the shaft in him expanding ever so slightly and it only spurs Sherlock on, his entire body vibrating violently, sweat dripping down his temples and chest, slick behind smacking against John's hips, loud and filthy above their twin pants and moans.

And suddenly John's entire body, his fingers and his hips and his breathing cease and Sherlock squirms, fucking himself harder, purposefully tightening around John's cock. John lets out a series of the sexiest moans beneath Sherlock, all but whining as his orgasm crashes over him, stuttering curses and praises and twitching limbs as Sherlock fucks him mercilessly.

Which all but shoves Sherlock right over the edge, crying out loudly as he comes long white ropes pouring out from his cock, dripping all over his stomach muscles. He sobs through it, vaguely hearing John's purrs of encouragement, his cock still hard enough to finish Sherlock off with a bang.

Sherlock's elbows buckle and he just about drops down heavily but John's hands catch him, laying his palms against Sherlock's shoulder blades and lowers him down. Sherlock lets himself be manhandled as John kicks his feet out from under him, allowing Sherlock to lay flat against him, back to front, panting and sweaty and so unbelievably satisfied he could fall asleep right this very minute.

They lay silently, both catching their breath, sated bodies calming from the roughest fuck they'd had yet. John's arms are wrapped around Sherlock's chest, heat radiating off his skin, but Sherlock can't be arsed to care. He's already drenched in several different fluids. More heat won't hurt.

"Hey gorgeous," John's voice is rough and garbled as though he just woke up from a long nap. "You okay?"

"God, yes," Sherlock replies shamelessly, because he really is. He's perfectly content. "That was… God, John, that was…"

"Incredible," John finished for him, ghosting a kiss against his ear and brushing fingers through the few hairs on Sherlock's chest. "It wasn't too much was it?"

Sherlock is already shaking his head. "No, it was perfect. Remember what I told you-"

"I know I know," John grumbles with a small laugh. "You'll tell me if you don't like something. I just… I know this is new territory for us both and-"

"And I promise I will tell you if I don't like something," Sherlock promised.

John huffed beneath him. "Actually what I was going to say was I'm really glad I'm doing all this for the first time with you. You're very important to me. You're… you're the  _most_ important."

Sherlock gives him a gentle squeeze. "You're the most important to me, too."

"What I mean is," John tries again, scrubbing a hand down his face, "I don't… I don't want to say this to you in the middle of a heated moment. I want… I want to be in my right mind, and you to be in yours."

Sherlock freezes, suddenly fiercely aware of what is about to take place. He waits, anticipation threatening to boil his blood to nothing.

"What I mean is… look, I'm not good at any of this, and I know I-"

"I love you," Sherlock cuts him off, beating him to it and ignoring the gasp that leaps from John's mouth. "I love you, John."

There is silence for a long moment before Sherlock suddenly finds himself flat on his back as John flips him over. "You twat," he grouses, capturing Sherlock's lips in a biting kiss. "You couldn't just let me stumble through it? Had to beat me to it?"

"I didn't want to wait," Sherlock growls back. "I'm ready for round two."

John groans. "You are _insatiable_ , Sherlock Holmes."

"And you love me," he grins, reaching for more kisses.

"And I love you," John agrees, voice softening to a tender whisper, kisses calming to soothing waves of pleasure.

They lay in the silence for a moment, the love between them wrapping snuggly around them, kisses turning to caresses and nudges and soft hums.

"But seriously," Sherlock murmurs after a long moment. "About that second rogering…"

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND SUPPORTING MY WORK! I cannot thank you enough!! 
> 
> Requests/Prompts and/or questions/comments are more than welcome here or on my [tumblr](http://mssmithlove1.tumblr.com) page! XO!


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